


His

by anoneventuality



Series: His [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Multi, Post-Game(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneventuality/pseuds/anoneventuality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dystopian post-game world the elves have come into power, and Trevelyan is now Solas's sex slave.</p><p>The first four chapters contain mostly Solas [Fen'Harel] / Trevelyan, the final chapter features Solas / Trevelyan / Briala. If you're not into f/f, stop reading after chapter four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt for Dragon Age Kink Meme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50616283#t50616283
> 
> "Post-game Solas releases the gods he locked away in hopes of freeing the People from their oppression. It works, but with terrible consequences: his fellow gods took things too far. Most humans are dead, and all that remain are permitted no status above slavery.
> 
> Solas eventually finds that his former friend, the female mage Trevelyan, is owned by another elfand is in very bad shape due to abuse/neglect. With no other option to help her, he takes her as his own slave, either through purchase, threat of violence, or murder."

She is kneeling on the bed, her ass in the air, legs spread out, her hands by her ankles; an awkward, uncomfortable position, one that puts strain on her upper body, one she had to learn to endure. He says he likes that it is suitable both for fucking her (ass or cunt, whichever he prefers at the moment) and for spanking. At first, she needed to be bound—sometimes magically, sometimes not—to withstand the stance for prolonged periods of time; it took her a while, but she learned to do it on her own, in the end. 

Every evening, at a scheduled hour, she waits like that for him, unless there are guests coming or he takes her out to some party. He lets her wait, usually, wait and wonder what he will be soon doing to her. Sometimes he has her abandon the position as soon as he’s in the room, and satisfied with her obedience; on such nights, she usually sleeps by his side after he has screwed her. Other times, when she has done something to displease him, he is rough with her, spanking her until she’s reduced to sobbing, rearranging her limbs as he pleases when he fucks her, and then has her sleep curled on a fur on the floor at the feet of the bed.

He comes to her fairly early that night, and she is not sure whether to take it for a good or a bad sign. She listens to his soft footsteps, and catches her breath as he leans over her to stroke the nape of her neck.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says, mocking her as always. She shivers, involuntarily. 

“Solas,” she mumbles into the pillow. “My lord.”

He pauses for a moment, his hand still on her neck, and then slides it over the curve of her back. She tries to be very still, knowing already that she has done something wrong, that he is going to torment her tonight. He rarely gets truly angry with her, he never really has, but he has ways of showing his discontent, and he tells her that punishment is necessary for her training.

“You haven’t been on your best behaviour lately, have you?” he says finally, stroking her lower back with suspicious gentleness. “Your language tutor says you are barely making any progress. I have thought you more clever than this.”

It has been a fancy of his to get her to learn the Elven language, at least to an extent that would allow her to follow his conversations with his guests, or know when she is spoken to at the parties. Not to talk, herself; he told her once that humans who tried to speak Elvish without full grasp of its nuances would be better off left gagged by their masters. She has managed to learn some: there is no mistaking the commands he uses in the bedroom, and she also understands basic phrases, but the finer aspects of the language elude her no matter how hard she tries.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.

“I am very sorry,” she whispers.

“I am not sure that you are,” he says. “Is there any reason for your lack of trying, or are you doing it purely out of spite?” 

He moves his hand past her ass, and between her thighs, sliding his fingers between the wet folds of her pussy. She lets out a small gasp.

“Perhaps—if I could just wear clothes during the lessons,” she says after a moment, surprised at her own daring. “The tutor—he keeps looking at my breasts, and maybe if I could be clothed—”

He withdraws his hand then, suddenly, and she stops, knowing that she has offended.

“I am sorry,” she says hastily.

“You know you are not permitted any clothes inside the house unless I say otherwise,” he says and he is right: she knows, all too well. She must keep naked for him, as well as in front of the servants, and even his guests, only wearing her collar. It’s not unusual for human slaves, as far as she can tell; quite common, in fact. It is more surprising that there is only her in his household, and how rarely he allows others to as much as touch her. There is the maid who dresses her and does her hair for the outings, but usually, that’s about all. He doesn’t want others to despoil his plaything. That she has to display her nakedness in front of them is more than enough to humiliate her; ever the proud Lady Inquisitor, even despite all that’s happened to her.

“I didn’t think,” she says. “I’m sorry, I am.”

“Clearly you didn’t.”

He slaps her ass then, time and again, fairly lightly at first, but soon with more strength; she tries not to move too much under his smacks, tries to focus on her breathing. Yet the pain blooms under her skin, and when he suddenly changes the direction of his blows and hits her pussy with his palm, she cries out. 

The spanking doesn’t last too long—they have had longer sessions, some with her splayed across his lap, him twisting her nipples cruelly while he was striking her—but it is enough to leave her pussy burning. He has her change her position then, pushing her down until she lies flat on her stomach, and then making her bend her legs upward. He holds her ankles as he enters her in a smooth move, his cock the opposite of gentle inside her sore cunt. She moans and gasps, his thrusts pinning her to the bed, making her rub herself against the sheets. He fucks her long, hard, deaf to her noises. In the end, she comes violently, the inexorable mixture of pain and pleasure pushing her over the edge, and he goes on for a while longer before finishing himself. He bites her shoulder, and then collapses on top of her for a brief, too brief, moment.

He has her clean his cock of the remainders of their coupling, and so she licks off every last trace of her wetness and his semen before crawling out of the bed and onto her spot on the floor. She does so before he even says anything, not wanting to give him any more cause for displeasure. 

As she tries to find a way to lie down that would be least uncomfortable for her aching limbs, she realizes, with a start, that he has been far too lenient on her that evening. She has been inattentive in her lessons and insubordinate to him; there is no way she is getting away with just a spanking.

As if hearing her thoughts, he speaks up in the darkness.

“We will be attending a soiree at the Orlesian embassy tomorrow,” he says. “I imagine they should be delighted to see the Lady Inquisitor brought to her knees in pleasure in front of them.”

He doesn’t say anything else after that, leaving her to mull over his words in trepidation. She doesn’t fall asleep until a long time later.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, she goes about much as usual, although her head keeps spinning with the implications of what he said the previous evening. She would like to hope that he was speaking figuratively about bringing her to her knees, but, somehow, she suspects this might not be the case. He has made her come in front of others before, as punishment, typically, although sometimes just to remind her he could do to her whatever he wanted. 

One time, quite a while ago, when he had some guests over, he took the leash attached to her collar, and used it to bind her, wrapping the length of the leash around her torso and arms, securing her to the back of her chair. Then, turning towards his guests again, he put his hand between her thighs and started stroking her pussy, fingering her, teasing her relentlessly, all the while talking animatedly to the present elven lords and ladies. She had no idea what the conversation was about: it might have been about the changes in Halamshiral as well as about the sluttiness of human women. She held out for as long as she possibly could, but he made her come in the end, his fingers merciless on her clit. She shook in her restraints, her face flushed crimson, a high-pitched moan escaping her mouth. She was sure all the guests were watching her, but she stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes, blinking back tears of sheer embarrassment.

She cried after the guests had left, and he mocked her for believing that she had had any dignity left to be mourning its loss. He seemed amused with her, even as he kissed away her tears. He was right, she realizes now; she doesn’t even remember what he was punishing her for anymore.

The last time he did it to her, when she asked whether it was absolutely necessary for her to wear the leash although they weren’t going out, he did not even need to tie her up; he stroked her languidly as she stood in the middle of a room full of his guests, her legs barely holding her up as she climaxed. It was still absolutely mortifying, but at least she was at his house, familiar ground, and there were no more than five of six strange elves around, not counting the household servants, who have seen her punished before on many an occasion. There is bound to be many more at the embassy, possibly some she met at the Winter Palace as the Inquisitor. And—she knows—there is no way for her to get out of this mess; pleading would only make her situation worse.

She takes her bath in the late afternoon, the water pleasantly warm and scented with lilies, while the maid washes her hair. Luckily, the hairs on her legs and arms were waxed just a couple days prior, and her skin is still smooth. The elven servant girls remain perplexed at all the excess hair on her body, as well as at how quickly it grows back. Elves, apparently, don’t have such problems.

The maid dries her hair after the bath, using towels first and then a delicate fire spell, and carefully combs it out. She is only going to have it done properly after she has dressed, so she stands up, allowing the maid to put on and lace her corset. She quite enjoys that part of being dressed, the corset emphasizing her waist and providing support to her back. Then follows a dress, usually simple, but rather well-suited for her, and the glorious promise of being shielded from the eyes of strangers that it brings.

Except today, she takes a step back upon seeing the dress laid out for her.

“This must be a mistake,” she says, horrified. “I can’t possibly go out wearing this.”

The dress is pretty, short-sleeved, in a becoming deep blue, its length according to the latest courtly fashions. Yet, all she can focus on is the neckline, which can hardly be called a neckline at all, the depth of the cleavage enough to reveal her breasts in their entirety. 

“This is what the master wants you to wear tonight, Lady Trevelyan,” the maid says brightly. “Would you like to go ask the master if he has made a mistake?”

Her heart skips a beat.

“No… no,” she says, and allows the maid to dress her without any further comments. This is going to get to him anyway; one more misstep, and she might not be able to walk out of the Orlesian embassy on her own.

She gets to look at herself in the mirror for quite some time while the maid does her hair and makeup. Her hair is quite heavy and difficult to style, and it must keep in its place throughout its evening, not a single strand falling down and obscuring the tattoo on her face, or any other markings she might be bearing from him, such as the bruise from his bite last night, or her collar.

She has a set of tattoos on her body now, all courtesy of him, all done by his hand. Intricate patterns reaching from her wrists to above her elbows, preventing her from ever using magic; these were the first ones. Much less crass than the heavy metal casts stopping magic she’d had to wear around her arms before he found her, when she was still imprisoned, he said. Two small, symmetrical ones on her lower back, which she can look at when passing one of the full-length mirrors in the house; these are supposed to interfere with her monthly cycle so that she cannot possibly conceive. And the mark of his ownership on her face.

It’s not a large one, compared to some she has seen. It’s on the left-hand side of her face, starting just below the eye and covering her cheekbone, with small tendrils extending down to her chin. The pattern is quite pretty; it probably carries more meaning for the Elven people than it does for her. He had her magically restrained for the other tattoos, but for this one, he just told her to sit in front of him and hold still while he drew on her face. He had her kiss his hands afterwards, and then fucked her mouth, holding her chin in his palm, admiring his handiwork. 

The tattoos did not hurt her when being made, not really; some elven magic, she suspects. He has told her that he (but only he) could remove them at any point in time, if he wished so. He has also teased her that he could give her a few more, around her breasts, on the inner side of her thighs, or on her mound, surrounding the cleft there, a tattoo that would keep her in a constant state of unabated arousal. She wonders if he will, eventually.

She thanks the maid after her work is done, and then sits alone in the room for some fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, waiting for him to come get her. When he shows up, he is also dressed up for the party, looking absolutely striking, regal, sharper somehow than she remembers him from the days of the Inquisition. He gives her an appraising look, and apparently likes what he sees, because his lips curl up in a smile.

He takes her collar from the vanity table; it is the more elegant one he has her wear for their outings, the one incrusted with small gems. He fastens it carefully around her neck, and then pulls her up to her feet, and in for a deep kiss. Her breasts brush against the fabric of his robes, and she gasps.

“You look particularly beautiful tonight,” he tells her; he pinches her nipples ever so slightly, and they immediately grow stiff. “You will be the envy of all at the soiree.”

She looks at him pleadingly, silently willing him to reconsider her dress, or at least her punishment. He examines her thoughtfully, and for a second or two she thinks he might take her against the vanity, perhaps requiring her to change her outfit afterwards after all; her cunt clenches under his gaze. Then, however, the moment seems to have passed.

“Hand me your leash,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle. She does so, her hands trembling slightly.

“I am afraid of tonight,” she says in a small voice, as he fastens the leash to her collar. 

He kisses her again.

“You will do fine,” he says. “Nothing can befall you while you’re at my side.”

She almost believes him before remembering that he is the one she should fear most of all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly backstory (drawing on the original kinkmeme prompt). The next part (coming up shortly) will contain more smut.
> 
> The non-con tag particularly applies here.

When the carriage takes them towards the Orlesian embassy, he regales her with the latest regarding the political situation in Thedas. There haven’t been that many changes in the recent months, with the wars long fought and over, the borders stabilized, the Elven gods turning the chaos they had wrought into new order. Still, there is some news: what used to be Ferelden has been an issue of contest between Ghilan’nain and Falon’Din since the end of the war, but Ghilan’nain seems to be overpowering her fellow god now, the Fereldan Dalish elves taking her side. On the opposite side of the continent, Elgar’nan’s New Arlathan, rebuilt roughly where old Arlathan had stood, thrives and bustles, but there are some elves choosing to live in the Tevinter that the mage Calpernia has in her hold.

 

“Perhaps it is easier for them to comprehend than New Arlathan,” he says. “Or maybe they are more drawn to her method of government… Although there is no true difference between Elgar’nan and Calpernia when it comes to their methods of dealing with humans.”

 

It was her who let Calpernia go at the Temple of Mythal, even though the woman was Corypheus’s lieutenant. But of course, things would not be much different if she had cut Calpernia down.

 

When the returned gods raised their armies, elves turned against humans almost instantenously. It wasn’t a war, not truly: a bloodbath, more accurately. At first, the news reaching her was sparse and conflicting; the Elven gods did not make Corypheus’s mistake of giving their enemies time to gather strength, but struck at once, seemingly everywhere. Ferelden fell, and Orlais, and Tevinter; then, the freed elven slaves of the Tevinter Imperium and the armies of the Elven gods have spilled into Nevarra, Antiva and the Free Marches, clearing them out of the vast majority of humans. The human maps were good for nothing anymore, the entire continent becoming a sprawling Elven Empire, with only a few small pieces of old countries remaining unswallowed. Calpernia’s Tevinter is one; the gods have also allowed a truncated Orlais to stand, under Marquise Briala’s rule, granting the elves of Orlais the self-government they have been long overdue. The Andrastian Chantry has fallen, as has the one in Tevinter, and the Inquisition is no more either.

 

But all this she learned much later. At the time she didn’t know what had happened, that it was he—whom she had known as Solas, the Elven god Fen’Harel—who had freed his brethren, and set them loose on Thedas. At the time, she was caught by the tide; separated from the Inquisition forces, she was in then-Orlais with a small party when they were ambushed, and she was captured and imprisoned. They knew who she was; the next few months she spent locked up by some elven band of mercenaries who were counting on her being the means to earn them a fortune. There was a new fashion for human slaves, she was informed, and the famed Inquisitor was bound to fetch the highest price on an auction block when the tumult of war finally died down.

 

They were fairly clever, for mercenaries. They expected whoever would be buying her would want her relatively unscathed, and so they decided they would not rape her, although hitting her was not off the table, apparently. She tried to rebel, anyway: she would refuse to eat or she would pace around her cell at night, restlessly, driving the guard insane, earning herself shoves and kicks. Once, she pretended that she had slipped while washing herself and tried choking one of her captors when they came to pick her up; she didn’t get to wash again after that. But there were other human women kept with her, ones that did not need to be sold in pristine condition, and her captors finally wised up, threatening to take out on them what they couldn’t on her. She was more docile after that.

 

It was months before he found her, as the chaos was slowly subsiding and the mercenaries started to spread the rumours of her availability. She was filthy with sweat and dust, her arms raw from the magic-blocking metal casts, weak after her time of limited movement and, despite her captors best attempts at forcing her to eat, emaciated. She had managed to gather that full curves in human women, breasts and ass, were in high demand, and she was not going to make that part of putting her up on sale easier for them.

 

She wept in relief upon seeing him, forgetting temporarily that he had left the Inquisition after Corypheus’s fall. She had assumed her companions and friends were dead, and the sight of him was the first thing in months that gave her any hope. She did not even recognize him at first, resplendent in elven finery, surrounded by an aura of raw power; he’d let his hair grow back, and it was soft and dark against his scalp. He asked her if she had been hurt by the mercenaries, she remembers. She still isn’t sure if he actually paid for her, or threatened them, or if he claimed her by his divine right, but he took her away from that hole, and brought her to Halamshiral, which he had made his residence. She bathed in a stream before their setting out; she ate ravenously on the journey; she caught up on her sleep at nights, and the elven entourage surrounding him, fawning on him, only gave her hopes for the future, not pause. He explained to her some of the things that were happening in Thedas, and she thought that he was at least somewhat discontent at how far the gods and the elves had gone.

 

She was feeling much more like herself by the time they arrived at his mansion in Halamshiral. Once there, she took a glorious bath in hot water, and then ate dinner with him, dinner that seemed to put any food she’d ever tried to shame.

 

He had her after that dinner, for the first time; he fucked her long, taking his time, drawing out his pleasure, all but devouring her until she was a spent mess. She felt so shocked and terrified, betrayed by him and by her body, which apparently found abject pleasure in the act, that her protests were dying on her breath, and she did not fight him as she would have a stranger. Afterwards, he pulled her to a sitting position on the bed, held her chin in his hand and told her that she was his now. He told her that she would get used to the idea soon, that she would see it was for her own good and that he would teach her to enjoy what he would be doing to her. She told him that it was impossible, thus earning her first punishment. And he was right, after all: he worked on her in small steps and increments until she did learn to enjoy him, to want him, to _crave_ him.

 

“You look thoughtful,” he says now, as he has stopped talking a while ago, and she keeps looking at him in silence.

 

“I was just wondering who we might see at the embassy,” she says quickly. “Are any of your… brethren… going to show up?”

 

The only Elven god—goddess, actually—she has met, besides him and Mythal, was Andruil, and although it has been months, she isn’t certain she is up for more.

 

“Oh, no,” he says. “They have their playfields and I have mine. No, tonight is mortals only.”

 

“Will there be anyone I know?” she presses. He never minds her curiosity in such issues.

 

“A few familiar faces. The ambassador, of course. The Marquise might make an appearance, if she hasn’t departed for Val Royeaux yet.”

 

“Briala is in Halamshiral?” she says, taken aback, as she has heard no mention of that visit thus far, and he gives her a sharper glance.

 

“You will remember to address her as Marquise,” he says, pointedly. “And as always, you will not talk unless she speaks to your first.”

 

She nods, suddenly more anxious again. She has not seen Briala—Ambassador Briala, then—since she was reconciling the woman with Empress Celene at the Winter Palace ball. And then Briala took advantage of the opportunity the new war gave her, rose to take over the throne of Orlais, and brought Celene to heel as her slave. It was a good power move to start a rule, he said to her once, telling her about how Briala would put the former Empress on display for all to see, and for select few to make use of her however they wanted, but Celene ought to have been put to her death soon after; even with her limited graces, she had outlived her usefulness.

 

She remembers how perplexed she was at that tale; she had thought that Briala had genuine affection for Celene. But then, Celene had ordered the extermination of that alienage several years before; there were probably many resentments between them that she had no idea about. And she knows, better than anyone, that love could take many shapes, sometimes twisted ones.

 

The carriage stops in front of the embassy; as they rise to their feet, he takes one more thorough look at her, and pulls her leash tighter in his hand. She readjusts the skirt of her dress: her body is already throbbing with treacherous anticipation at what awaits her. She suspects that, on the drive back, she will be kneeling on the floor of the carriage, sucking him off.

 

“You will be perfect tonight,” he says, and it sounds part reassurance, part warning. Then he leads her out of the carriage and towards the party.


	4. Chapter 4

The Elven language sounds throughout the Orlesian embassy as they make their way across the room. Predictably, they all want to greet him, speak to him, try to curry his favour, or even just bask in his presence. She is, by and large, an afterthought, glanced at, but ignored; even so, she is glad she still cannot understand much of what is being said around her. There are a few human slaves around: the Orlesian elves might have deemed the masks worn in the old Empire _pass_ _é_ , but they are more than willing to indulge in new trends of their own. She can see both human women and men among the slaves, almost all in various states of undress, some bearing markings that inform the guests they are available to all tonight.

 

As the evening progresses, he keeps her by his side, every now and then providing her with drink and food, sometimes touching one or the other of her breasts, as if reminding her of her decorative role. Still, she feels a little bored, and her legs are aching after the prolonged standing up, the rug under her bare feet, a handiwork from Brecilian Forest, scratching her unpleasantly. Nobody even speaks to her until Briala appears in the room; fashionably late, she looks striking in an emerald green dress, and with no mask and net for cover, her own dark hair is revealed, as well as the freckles on her dark skin. Approaching the centre of the party, the woman takes a glance at her and smiles, wickedly.

 

“Ah, she really is as fetching as I remembered,” Briala says in common tongue, after exchanging her greetings in Elven. “A pleasure, Inquisitor. I have wondered if we will meet.”

 

“Marquise,” she says, dropping her eyes.

 

“Do you know, I am still vexed that you had to kill Duchess Florianne,” Briala goes on, reaching absently for some finger food off a tray. “She would have made such a delightful plaything for us. Oh, how she would squabble and compete with Celene.”

 

“I… I am sorry, Marquise,” she says after a moment, realizing that the woman is waiting for an answer. “I never thought about that this way.”

 

The party laughs at that; some make what surely are lewd comments and the Marquise answers them lightly, while still gazing at her. She realizes, suddenly, that he is watching them both intently, and she is not sure she likes the smile appearing on his lips.

 

No more than a few minutes later, Briala is called away to some important guests at the opposite side of the room; there are still more elves showing up, and the guests start circulating all over the place, mingling. She looks at him briefly, pleadingly, as she almost sways on her tired legs, and he tugs her leash.

 

“We’d better sit down,” he says, and leads her to a bench covered with soft fabric. She waits until he is seated, and then she perches on the edge of the bench, carefully arranging her skirts. He notices this, and stops her. “Wait,” he says, in a low voice that makes her breath hitch, and she remembers then of her promised punishment. “Lift your dress and hold it up. And open your legs.”

 

She does as she is told, after only the smallest pause to process what he’s said, what’s about to happen; she lifts the skirt of her dress and spreads her legs, showing her naked pussy to everyone looking. A moment later, he slides his fingers between her folds, inspecting her wetness, and then proceeds to touch her more intently, in broad, almost rough strokes, dragging his fingers from her opening to her clit, and back again. She is a little startled at the abruptness of his touch, at how intensely her body takes to it, but then realizes this might be her reprieve: the sooner he finishes with her, the sooner she is no longer making a spectacle of herself. And so she gives in to his touch more eagerly than usual during those public punishments, even rubbing herself ever so slightly against his palm.

 

But he notices, and, obviously, figures her out. He continues as he has, for a while, and then, just as she is on the precipice of breaking, removes his hand from between her legs, leaving her hanging and breathing heavily.

 

He starts again, perhaps a few minutes later, slower and more tantalizing this time. He avoids touching her clit directly, instead sliding his fingers around it, inserting them into her cunt. She prepares herself for him stopping this round as well, but that does not prevent her from feeling frustrated when he does. Throughout, he converses with other guests as if nothing was happening, idly curling her leash around his other hand. Then his fingers are between her folds once more.

 

He repeats the cycle a few more times, and each round might last mere minutes if even that, but for her, they drag on endlessly. She is burning under his touch, and he knows that, and plays with that fire until it scorches. Soon enough, he has her reduced to senseless want, and it takes all her training not to speak, not to ask for more.

 

The next pause seems longer, and she cannot help but utter an eager half-moan when he touches her again. There is laughter from those standing around, and some comments which she barely hears through the pounding of her blood and which she doesn’t understand anyway.

 

“They are wondering how soon you will start begging me for release,” he translates. “But I know you will not do that, not at all. Because I know you are not permitted to talk here unless you are answering a question. Even if I keep you going all night.”

 

She whimpers, acutely aware that even those who haven’t been looking at her yet are turning towards them now. There may be thirty, perhaps forty elven ladies and lords in the room to witness her shame, and he has just made sure nobody will miss it happening.

 

He withdraws his hand, and her resounding gasp is the only complaint she dares make.

 

“But I might be merciful,” he says, and adds, in Elven, “Get on your knees. Now.”

 

Without thinking, she hastens to obey, sinking to the floor while still holding up her dress, begging with her body as she couldn’t have with her words. He pulls her by her leash, making her scramble ever closer towards him. He makes her look him in the eye as he puts his hand between her legs; two of his fingers find their way into her cunt, and he rubs her clit with his thumb. It doesn’t take long now: in just a few well-timed strokes she is coming, her legs trembling, her climax rippling through her like a powerful wave, and he keeps touching her throughout it, prolonging her pleasure, until it is almost unbearable and she utters a shameless wail.

 

He wipes his hand on the skirt of her dress, and, still shivering in the aftershocks, she kisses his fingers. The conversations around them become louder again; perhaps they have never subsided, she just ceased hearing them.

 

“You may rest now,” he tells her. For a time, she slumps on the floor, resting her head against his leg, holding onto him, her breathing slowly evening out. He strokes her hair while speaking to the Orlesian ambassador, hands her his goblet of water to sip from as she calms down.

 

Later, he has a servant lead her to a bathroom; the girl looks at her with true envy, she realizes with no surprise. They might delight in her humiliation, but if Fen’Harel just beckoned, they would all gladly take on her role, elven women and men alike.

 

When she returns to the room, he is speaking with Marquise Briala, and it is her turn to feel stupidly, ridiculously jealous. The woman _is_ very pretty, and her position must make her desirable; she should be glad to have him find himself a mate, she should not care. She has seen him bed other women, a few men, too; he has had her participate on a few occasions, and she knows she ought not to have cared about his fucking others or have felt possessive, but she has, and she does.

 

Briala smiles when the servant girl brings her to them, but she takes her leave almost at once.

 

“I will see you later,” the woman says, and she is not sure what that is supposed to mean; as the words are spoken in Elven, she pretends not to understand.

 

The party seems to have taken a turn towards more debauched, the guests openly fondling the human slaves all around the room now, some engaging in caresses among themselves. One of the male slaves is pushed to his hands and knees in the middle of the room, and a few of the guests take turns smacking his bottom; someone pours wine over the young man’s back.

 

She turns her head away from the scene, grateful for a distraction as he gives her a blueberry cake to eat, one of her favourites.

 

“They think they are emulating old Arlathan,” he breathes into her ear, his hands on her arms. “With none of its class, none of its poise.” He sounds resentful, somehow. He says something in Elven, then, something about foolishness or madness, but she cannot make sense of the pronouns. As he lets go of her arms, he brushes his hand against hers for a fleeting moment, and then pulls on her leash.

 

“Come. We are leaving now.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Fen'Harel / Trevelyan / Briala.

She thought they would be heading towards the carriage, but he leads her through the embassy’s garden, up a side staircase—where he pauses a moment to pull her into a kiss—to a terrace, and then through a half-open door into a large bedroom, where they find Briala. The Marquise is lounging on the bed, already changed into a half-translucent dressing gown, but gets up as they come in.

On seeing the woman, she pauses in her steps, suddenly uncertain, and it takes a tug of her leash to get her to the middle of the room, to face Briala.

He says something in Elven, sounding vaguely amused. Briala laughs.

“Yes, I can see that,” she says in common tongue. “Oh, Inquisitor. We are going to have such a good time with you tonight.”

She wishes he had told her where they were going, given her any warning. She can be compliant, she can follow through on anything—almost anything—he can come up with for her to do, but this is unexpected, in so many ways. He likes to watch her with others, sometimes, but so far, he’s always been the one to dictate the course of the evening; and she knows how to behave so as to please _him_ , but what will Briala want of her? She remembers, suddenly, that she entertained the idea of having all three pretenders to the Orlesian throne bow to her at the end of the ball in the Winter Palace, and feels terrified at her own past gall.

Briala raises her hand and runs a finger over her mouth, then slips it down her neck, and between her breasts.

“You are so very obedient,” the Marquise says, taking in the tattoo on her face. “Restrained. I didn’t think you’d have it in you. I watched you in that room downstairs. So quiet, even in your desperation. I would have had to gag Celene to keep her from begging and mewling, had she been there in your place.” Briala glances towards him, still at her side, his hand on the back of her head, petting her gently. “She pouted for days after your visit.”

“You know my opinion on the subject,” he says, mildly, for someone who is suggesting the murder of a former empress. She remembers him going on that trip to Val Royeaux, how starved for him she was when he returned.

“I do,” Briala replies, her eyes slightly narrowing. “But, Inquisitor, tell me: were you enjoying what was going on there? Your master pleasuring you in public?”

Briala’s both hands—soft, small, so very different from his—are on her breasts now, weighing them, cupping them, and she has to focus to answer the question.

“That was my punishment, Marquise,” she says, still uncertain of what is wanted from her.

Her words make Briala laugh.

“How polite! To think you had no shortage of clever retorts at the Winter Palace,” the woman observes, tweaking her nipples a few times until she whimpers.

“She has learned her place since then,” he says. She wills him to say something more, do something that would provide her with any direction, but he appears content with watching Briala continue to examine her, the Marquise all but transfixed with her breasts.

“Should I undress her for you?” he offers, his hand sliding down the length of her spine, down the lacings of her dress.

Briala nods, then hesitates.

“Unless you have something else in mind.”

This gives her some heart, for a moment at least: it is not only her who perhaps isn’t entirely certain what steps to take this evening; and maybe, just maybe, he will stop Briala before she has her do anything truly outlandish. Then, however, she sees the grin playing on his lips.

“I will let you know when I do,” he says, and then pries the lacings loose, ripping the last ones apart as he pulls down her dress, letting it fall to the floor, rendered useless. Her corset is off next, and mere seconds later she stands between the two of them stark naked, her hands at her sides.

Her back is against his chest, and she can feel his cock, half-hard under his robes. He uses her leash to pull her back a little, make her stand straighter, display herself to Briala, nudging her legs open with his knee.

The Marquise’s hands finally leave her breasts, and travel lower, somewhat tentatively, to the curve of her waist, to her hips, her mound; she almost manages to relax under the woman’s touch when Briala slides her hand between her thighs, and painfully squeezes her folds shut.

She cries out, and almost recoils from the touch, stopping herself from protesting at the last moment. Briala lets her go, strokes her gently for a few seconds, and then slips two fingers right into her cunt, burrows them deep inside before withdrawing, curling them up at the very entrance. A few minutes of such ministrations and she is buckling, and nearly panting.

“She is _dripping_ ,” Briala comments, almost gleefully; she then draws her hand back, leaving her empty and wanton.

“That is not unusual,” he says, as she strives to catch her breath.

“I want to see her ass,” Briala says, and takes a step to the side, letting him push her, roughly, towards the bed, where it takes her a moment to get on her hands and knees. She must look obscene to them, with all the wetness pooling out of her cunt and her pussy swollen with desire; much as she is used to his looking at her, the thought of Briala’s watchful gaze stripping her of all decency remains disturbing. But that is the point, obviously: to remind her she has no say in what happens to her, to keep her on her toes, just as she has assumed they have slipped into a routine, second-guessing and unable to protest. He must enjoy that.

Then the Marquise slaps her ass, one, twice, five, six times, and she can stop _thinking_ and concentrate on her breathing, and on the sensation of pain.

“She can take more,” he says, walking around the bed until he is at its head, able to look her in the eye. He has shrugged off his robe, and the sight of him naked, all taut, sinewy muscle, his cock hard, all but ready for her to take into her mouth, momentarily breaks her focus. He cups her chin in his palm, strokes her cheek as he unfastens her leash. “Here. Take that.”

She cranes her head to see Briala fold the leash in half, and again in half, loop it around her hand.

“Can she count in Elven?”

“Not very well,” he says, and she can hear the hint of displeasure in his voice; she hopes he will suggest them doing some other game after all, but he adds, “But she will count to thirty if that is your wish.”

“Excellent.” Briala strokes her ass with the folded leash. “Count for me, Inquisitor.”

So she does, counting every time the Marquise hits her, trying not to mess up her Elven numerals, her voice fairly level at first, higher-pitched and breathier with every other strike. Briala’s blows don’t actually land all that hard—or perhaps she has become used to his strength when he spanks her—but the woman angles them unexpectedly, letting some fall on her thighs, some between her buttocks, never the same way twice in a row.

“ _Thirty_ ,” she manages finally, out of breath, a note of relief perhaps too obvious in her voice, because Briala shocks her then into a scream, the leash landing right between her legs, hitting her pussy in a final, most potent strike.

The Marquise laughs again; he smiles, letting go of her head at least, and she lets out a whimper.

“Come to me,” Briala says; she moves, awkwardly, across what seems like a sea of silk sheets. “Oh, Inquisitor,” the woman says, and draws her closer, kissing her for the first time, soft tongue sliding into her mouth. She is aware that he moves to sit only inches behind her, to get a better look or maybe to control the situation; she can feel the threads of magic oozing from him, and she trembles. Briala pulls her hand by the wrist, placing it on her own breast, and she strokes it as they remain locked into a kiss. This time, however, she doesn’t allow herself to be fooled into believing that this slow caress might continue; she is right, as a few minutes later, the Marquise pushes her away, a glint in her eye.

“Straighten your back, Inquisitor,” Briala says, and reaches towards her breasts again, strokes them, tweaks and pinches her nipples until they grow hard as pebbles. He tangles his hand in her hair, pulls her head back, forcing her to sit up even straighter.“Your breasts are really quite amazing,” the woman continues, swatting at them a few times, first downwards from the top, and then from the bottom, upwards. “If you were mine, I’d have you wear clamps on them half the time… Maybe connect them with a chain, so I could pull you around when in bed.”

She gasps, trying not to dwell on the idea—hoping it won’t give _him_ any ideas—to focus on the slaps that Briala deals to her breasts instead, more thorough than when she was hitting her ass. Her breasts are feeling hotter and heavier by the minute, and if she was dripping wet before, surely she is leaking by now, shamelessly aroused.

“Enough,” he says after a few more minutes of this, and Briala pauses, letting go of her aching nipple. “You said you wanted the Inquisitor to lick you clean.”

They rearrange their positions on the bed; Briala takes off her dressing gown and half-sits with her back against the headboard, opening her legs. As she tries to figure out the best angle to kneel, he pushes her impatiently towards the other woman until her nose almost dives into Briala’s cunt.

She gives Briala the first tentative licks, dragging her tongue across the length of the woman’s pussy. As she does so, she becomes aware of his hands pulling her own legs apart; he takes a moment to stroke her still throbbing ass, and then slowly inserts his fingers between her buttocks, one, then another, followed by yet one more, coiling magic around them to make her slick, stretching her out.

“Focus,” Briala demands, pushing her head down, so she tries to imbue her erratic licking with some rhythm, slides her tongue into the woman’s cunt. Perhaps deliberately, he chooses this moment to enter her, and it is only slightly uncomfortable as he slides his cock inside her ass. She buckles, and has to pause to catch her breath. “Focus!” Briala repeats, and she is glad for not having that chain between her nipples, as she would have surely earned herself a sharp tug.

It takes her a moment, but then she manages to give more attention at the task at hand, licking, sucking, using her fingers for some aid. He fucks her slowly; she realizes he is aiming to distract and hopes Briala won’t take long to come. The Marquise does seem to be enjoying herself, arching into her mouth, moaning openly, her breathing growing faster as she laps at the woman’s clit with small, quick licks. He presses his fingers against her own clit, but she continues to lick Briala as if in a frenzy, her brain no longer capable of any coherent thought.

Briala comes with a triumphant cry, and she isn’t allowed even a moment of respite; he pulls her closer to himself, moving faster inside her, eliciting increasingly louder noises. The feeling of his weight and heat on her is glorious; he bites the skin on her shoulder, still stroking her pussy, bites again, just below her collar, pulling her skin with his teeth, and she keens.

Just as she is nearing her peak, Briala rises from the pillows and wraps her mouth around her nipple, sucks gently, and then bites her as well. She cries out loud, her voice hoarse, as the two of them tear a savage orgasm out of her, leaving her momentarily deafened, panting and oversensitive; he continues fucking her for a few more minutes, and then, when she can barely stand it anymore, comes, spilling inside her in violent spasms.

They do not stand the night. He speaks with Briala in Elven for some time, as she lies exhausted on the bed, utterly spent. Then, however, he tells her to rise and gather her clothes; he laughs to see her sway on her tired legs. He half-carries her to their carriage, not bothering to put on her leash. He has her curl with her head in his lap, and strokes her hair.

“You were very good,” he says; his voice sounds gentle in her sleepy ears. “I knew you would be.”

She makes a small, contented noise, and drifts off under his touch as the carriage takes them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the kink meme OP for this prompt! It was a lot of fun writing filthy porn again after a long break.
> 
> Also thanks to my wonderful beta for looking through this on such a short notice. ~~Not that she didn't enjoy.~~
> 
> Thank you, AO3 readers, for all the kudos and comments! I will try to reply to them shortly.


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